


Burn

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [53]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Angst, Language, M/M, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 07:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14563857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Arthur and Lancelot fight more than one kind of fire.





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> This is set a few months after **Three Days** in this same verse, and before the beginning of Lance deciding to take up with his family again for what he considers Arthur's sake.

Arthur had a friend who was a fireman, a skinny, dark haired guy named Tristan. Lance thought Arthur had met him in university, but Arthur was non-committal when asked about him. Lance had shrugged and forgotten about him.

Until today, when Arthur was yelling into the phone and tugging on his leathers at the same time, keys clutched first in his teeth, then between the fingers of the hand that was free. The phone almost squipped out from between his ear and shoulder, but Lance caught it and turned on the speaker before Arthur could drop everything else in his quest to fumble for it.

He’d known it was the department, but hadn’t known the details. He also knew how dangerous Arthur’s job – and soon to be his own – was, but it was still _…as soon as you can, Castus, because this is a big mess and we need…_

Arthur snatched the phone as soon as he’d finished pulling his leathers on over his uniform pants, and the conversation was muted. Lance stood facing him, the sun dappling both of them as the slat blinds blew slightly in the warmth from the early summer wind. Lance had opened the sliding door to the patio, but he was beginning to sweat. His head ached and he rubbed without thinking about it at the newly healed slice across his eyebrow. Arthur didn’t meet his eyes as he wrapped up the call, and pocketed the phone as he reached for his helmet and turned to face the door.

“What now?”

“A big fire,” Arthur answered. “They’re calling in all available, police and fire, and apparently it’s not controllable.” He made to put on his helmet, but Lance stayed him with a hand. His headache trebled and he bit his lip. “Will you be careful?” They’d had this discussion before. He really didn’t want it to escalate again. But. “Arthur?”

Arthur tucked his helmet under his right arm and touched Lance’s healing eyebrow. “Is this still bothering you?” He evaded the question; a master almost better than Lance at ignoring what was in front of him. Lance took the questing hand and lowered it so Arthur was forced to step closer to him. The blinds made that odd crunchy sound from the wind blowing again and Lance squinted in the light of morning.

“I’m fine. Will you please be careful, Arthur?”

_You’re doing this to be like Uther, aren’t you?_

_I’m not him, Lance. I’m me. And this is what I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. I thought you knew that. We’ve talked about it forever. It’s what’s right for me._

_Are you sure?_

Arthur cupped his face with his left hand, and Lance wanted to sob, but he’d done enough of that, especially over the past two months. So he smiled and closed his eyes and let Arthur kiss him, dry lips and a touch of fingers in his sleep-messed hair. “I love you,” the other man said, pulling back and putting his helmet on over his head. He grinned quickly and blankly (Lance could see his green eyes; the smile didn’t come close to touching them) through the heavy plastic at Lance in his pajamas, Lance’s face pillow creased and bare chest suddenly goose-pimpled in the air-conditioned chill. “I love you,” Arthur said again, and snapped the visor down over his face.

Lance watched him go, turning to face the door as Arthur shut it behind him, harder than he’d meant – the walls shuddered from the force and Lance retreated upstairs to the bedroom, the covers sliding over his head easily.

*

_You okay? I know it’s crazy, just text when you can._

_Arthur? Just tell me you’re okay._

_A Y will be fine._

_Please be careful. Please answer when you can._

_Arthur?_

Lance remembered Arthur’s friend Tristan at about 3 that afternoon. He’d been pacing for the last hour, chewing his nails _fucking cliché_ and wondering about who he could call or get in contact with to find out what exactly was going on downtown that the news wasn’t covering. He was too new to the academy to know how to find out inside news, and at first he had refused to watch it at all. It was all garbage and yellow journalism and sensationalism. And truth be told, if something happened to Arthur or his unit, he really didn’t want to see it unfold in brilliant 4K color, in their bedroom where he was frozen to one spot and unable to do anything about it. He’d finally thrown on some shorts and a tee and gone downstairs, the lunch he made sitting uneaten on their dining room table, the big TV in the living room better than the one in the bedroom.

Aside from the fact that Lance had thought he might vomit if he’d stayed upstairs anymore, looking at the bed they shared, touching Arthur’s red silk sheets, smelling the other man on his clothing as Lance had tried to clean the closet up for something to distract himself with.

The sandwich he’d made was beginning to dry out; he picked up the plate and dumped it in the trash as the television blared loudly about the 5-alarm blaze that had multiple units out trying to fight it.

He retreated from the kitchen and his trashed lunch and paced again, watching the reports – he thought he saw a flash of Arthur directing traffic away from the building, but wasn’t quite sure – and jerked when he recognized the fireman the reporter had yanked at as a few of them had passed by the cameras in a hurry.

“…police are helping, but this is as bad as I’ve seen in a while. I have to go, please stay back,” the man said, his dark hair pushed back away from his face, his helmet casting shadow over his fine boned features. He rushed away from the reporter, but Lance recognized him and snatched at Arthur’s iPad without thinking. He was hoping Tristan’s number was in Arthur’s contacts, and he bit off a sound when he found it. The other man might not answer – he was busier than Arthur, probably – but it was worth a shot.

_I’m sorry to bother you but can’t get a hold of Arthur. What’s happening over there?_

_This is Lance Benoit._

He waited; he really didn’t expect Tristan to answer him, but maybe he’d take a break and

_ding_

_busy this is a bad one I haven’t seen him sorry_

“Fuck!”

Lance hurled the iPad across the room, wincing when it crashed against the bookshelf. “Fuck this,” he spat, and without thinking about it, threw on shoes and sunglasses and ran out the door. He was halfway to the location before he wondered if he’d locked the house or not.

*

The scene was a nightmare.

Lance had managed to squeak the Toyota into a spot about four blocks from the burning building, and shoved his way through the crowd of onlookers and worried residents, stepping on a few toes, not noticing where he was going or whom he was pushing until he arrived at the police barricade and had to stop his headlong dash.

The sun was blazing and he began to sweat almost immediately, the ladder and engine trucks everywhere and the cops too and people were shouting and freaking out and everything was dirty and sooty and full of water and smoke and he turned, about ready to vomit from the stress of seeing the craziness and there!

“Arthur!” he screamed at the other man, who was frantically trying to keep reporters and neighborhood people on one side of the LAPD cordon. Arthur’s face was soaked in sweat and dirt stained; his uniform was hanging on him from the humidity and he was gesturing at a woman carrying a small child as Lance ran up to him, the woman trying to sneak past him for some reason Lance couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Arthur,” he said breathlessly, stopping at the barrier and snatching at Arthur’s arm. “You’re alright. Are you alright?”

The sun burned down on them and Lance realized he’d lost his glasses in the mad dash to the scene, squinting as Arthur frowned at him as the woman he’d been arguing with finally turned away. Noise and disarray flowed around them and behind them and Arthur shoved at Lance with a hand, pushing him further away from the cordon.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?? It’s way too dangerous! There’s enough trouble without – Lance. Jesus Christ. Please go home. I’m fine. I – ”

An ear splitting alarm went off and Lance clapped his hands over his ears and crouched, unable to stop his reaction and Arthur popped his eyes wide open and pointed at Lance. It was so hot and loud and Lance couldn’t hear what Arthur was saying to him –

“…move, you hear me? Back up! Stay away from the cordon, I have to…” he shouted at Lance, his face dark and thunderous and he turned and was gone in a heartbeat, two, and Lance stood there as the alarm continued to blare, his tee shirt and shorts too much and not enough clothing as the entire world seemed to go up in smoke as Arthur barreled away from him.

*

It was way past midnight by the time the fire department had gotten the blaze out. Lance had ignored Arthur’s orders and had hung near the barricade, watching people, helping when he could – passing out water, handing children back to nervous parents, keeping neighborhood residents out of the way of the police. When the other cops had found out he was in the academy, they’d pressed him into service, and he was glad of the time – he kept glancing at Arthur, who passed by him a few times, helping to tote hoses and once carrying a large piece of firefighting equipment Lance had never seen before. He’d caught angry looks from the other man, but he was busy with strangers or dealing with keeping cars away from the area. It was fine. He was too busy to be scared suddenly, and when it was done, he found himself alone on a dirty, wet street, the fire trucks pulling out as quickly as they’d gotten there.

The neighborhood was transformed from something out of a movie to just a neighborhood, dark and filthy and the air full of ash still. Lance stood at the corner, holding an empty water bottle and something someone had dropped – when he looked at his hand he realized it was a baby blanket, and he set it down gently on the hood of the old Honda he was standing next to. The moon shone beautifully and he shivered; his clothing was damp and stained and he found a trashcan and tossed the bottle and started the walk back to where he’d parked. He was in a daze and tripped over his untied shoe, the string breaking as he caught himself against a fence. He cursed and bent to tie what was left of it, and then stood as the roar of a motorcycle engine almost deafened him, pulling up close enough to him that he had to step back a foot or two in order to see Arthur’s rage-filled face as the other man yanked his helmet off.

Arthur’s face was sunburned and his hair was sweat soaked and stood up in crazy whorls and Lance, to his credit, did not flinch or change his expression as Arthur stared him down, his boots clicking on the ground as he kept the bike from falling to either side.

“What. The _fuck_ was that.”

“I was helping.”

“I know that. I mean why the fuck were you here in the first place? I explicitly told you I’d be fine, and to stay home. Lance. You could have been hurt. Or done something to get in trouble. Or hurt someone else.” Arthur’s voice was low and shaking, and Lance wanted to punch him suddenly. He hadn’t done anything wrong; he was an academy student and would have to learn how to do this type thing soon at any rate. Fuck Arthur.

His own anger rose and he stuck a finger out, pushing at Arthur’s wet shirt over his heart. “I am going to be doing this, _just like you_ , soon enough, Arthur. I may as well learn now. And I helped people, and it was fine. And you didn’t answer my God damned texts, so what the fuck was I supposed to do?” He screeched the last word, and then raised his hand to his face, scrubbing at it and the scar over his eye. He would _not_ shout. He had done nothing wrong.

His eyes teared uncontrollably; ash made his face soot-dirty and he snorted and turned back to the street, heading toward his car – Arthur’s car. “You told me you’d be careful,” he said, his back to Arthur. “This is new to me, you get that, right?”

Arthur shut the bike off, and lowered the kickstand. He swung a leg over and sat on the saddle, shaking his head and setting his helmet down on the back of the bike. “You’ve seen me in this job a long time, Lance.” Lance looked over his shoulder at Arthur, and then turned and cocked his head. He wanted nothing but to go home and take a shower and then sleep for a thousand years so he could forget whatever argument they were about to have.

“Not from this side,” he answered, his words sibilant and weary, the truth of them echoing in his head. He stared at Arthur as the other man’s exhausted face resolved itself into an unhappy frown, and then Arthur shut his eyes. The bike ticked and the weirdly abandoned neighborhood sounds were suddenly too loud. Lance approached Arthur and bit at his lip as he tucked a strand of hair behind Arthur’s left ear. “Not from this side, Arthur.”

Arthur let his head drop and Lance slipped between his bent legs, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, Arthur resting his forehead on Lance’s sternum. Lance stuck his nose into Arthur’s smoke-stinky and sweaty hair and kissed the crown of his head, his anger at the other man still there, still swirling and his eyebrow twinged, the new scar aching. He squeezed at Arthur, almost too tightly, and Arthur lay his cheek on Lance’s chest and said something that sounded like _be the death of me_ but Lance chose to ignore it.

“Can we just go?” Lance finally sighed.

“Yes,” Arthur said and stood up, Lance’s arms sliding to his waist. “Yes, my love.”

Arthur’s dry mouth touched his cheek, and then his lips, and Lance still wanted to punch him, but instead wrapped his arms harder around Arthur’s waist and tugged until they were flush and he kissed Arthur back, both of them damp and filthy and so much _new_ ate Lance’s stomach he decided the only way to tolerate it was to be anywhere with this man holding him. Even if it was at a massively scary fire or someplace he had never thought to ever be.

“Please be careful,” he whispered against Arthur’s lips. “Please.”

“I could say the same to you,” Arthur answered, and then pulled back, his eyes meeting Lance’s, and the implication of that statement hung in the air between them; a brick, a butterfly, a gust of wind that was gone in a heartbeat. Arthur took a few steps and settled back on his bike, his helmet in his hands. “Leave the car,” he added. “We’ll get it in the morning.” He put the helmet on, and turned the key, the bike revving in the quiet of the early hours.

“It is morning,” Lance squinted at the horizon as he mounted the Triumph behind Arthur.

“Then I think it’s time for bacon.”

“Bacon for pigs?”

“Bacon for pigs,” Arthur agreed. He wrapped fingers around one of Lance’s thighs as Lance squeezed them around Arthur’s legs on the bike, and Lance didn’t dignify the old joke with an answer. They were both pigs, now. Lance’s father would have disowned him in a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat. A nanosecond.

They left the burned out hulk of an apartment building and stopped at Canter’s on Fairfax, the bike slipping in to a perfect spot at the front of the building, the wait staff kind and attentive and Arthur ordered them both huge amounts of food, both of them eating until they could barely move. Lance sipped at his coffee and stared at Arthur’s badge that winked in the bright overhead lights that lit the restaurant. “I texted your friend Tristan,” he said suddenly. “When I couldn’t find you.”

Arthur’s brows rose. “Did he answer?”

“He did, yeah.”

Arthur smiled, a weird tiny crooked thing, and shoved hair back from his forehead. He took Lance’s hand that held his coffee and brushed his thumb over Lance’s fingers.

“I am careful, Lance. I promise you. You have me. I won’t go anywhere. I won’t leave you alone.” He let go of Lance’s hand and touched the newly healing scar zagging through Lance’s brow. “I won’t.”

“Okay,” Lance answered. He rolled his lips inward. “Okay, Arthur.”

His father definitely would have disowned him. But Lance didn’t give two shits. The new was scary, and the new might eat him alive. But he believed Arthur, and he abruptly believed that the other man would keep his promise. They could finally be together and Lance could outlast his legacy and his family’s shadow.

He could. He hoped.

He glazed over that last thought, and shoved the image of Guinevere sitting in his father’s big office, her fingers poised over the phone to call him, out of his mind.

They went back to where Arthur’s car was parked and Lance kissed Arthur’s neck under his helmet when he got off the bike; Arthur tugging at his hand as Lance walked back toward the car. He got in and fired up the engine, sliding a pair of sunglasses he found in Arthur’s glove compartment over his eyes, the sun almost blinding him, and followed Arthur back to their home through morning traffic.

He didn’t start shaking until he’d parked in front of the other man’s door and turned the car off completely, and he shoved trembling hands in his pockets as he let Arthur lead him up the steps and through the door into the dark, air conditioned loft.

~

**Author's Note:**

> I hate summaries. :)
> 
> I know I've written a few pieces that are set around this same time, but this one wanted to come out, so I used it again. Lancelot has been attending the LAPD Academy for about two or so months here, and Arthur's been an active policeman for maybe two years. 
> 
> Pig is a derogatory term for Police.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who's read this series/is reading it now/has taken the time to read/comment. Y'all are awesome.


End file.
